


pretty thin evidence

by Helenish



Series: Here is a thing that isn't happening. [17]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, underage mumble mumble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-17
Updated: 2011-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenish/pseuds/Helenish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You shouldn't take it personally," Tim says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pretty thin evidence

"Nela says you guys know each other," Tim says. "You and Eames." They're doing a test run with Tim as the dreamer, walking quickly through pasture land, herds of dairy cows milling around on the rolling hills at the horizon in tidy random patterns.

"We used to work together," Arthur says.

"No shit," Tim says, sounding surprised. "I thought--" he looks sideways at Arthur and then closes his mouth.

Arthur sighs inwardly. Tim is a natural--it’s spring, and the fields are pitted and squelchy with mud. Arthur is wearing galoshes, but Tim’s sneakers are soaked, the hems of his jeans wet and muddy; you can't teach that type of unconscious, realistic detail. Tim is also incredibly, indefatiguably good-natured--it's a surprisingly rare personality trait in dreamwork, which mostly involves gritting your teeth and putting up with poorly-socialized weirdos because of their specialized skill set. Arthur could stand to round out a team with a guy like Tim, who never gets offended by anything, if Tim can just get over needing to know everyone’s life story and cheerfully guessing if they’re not forthcoming.

"Just spit it out," Arthur says.

"I thought you guys banged," Tim says reluctantly.

"We didn't," Arthur says. "This way." They hop a fence and start up a long, gravel path towards a weathered farmhouse. They’re going to need some kind of shortcut here, Arthur notes.

"You shouldn't take it personally," Tim says, kicking a little at the gravel as they walk. "He's probably just not into guys."

Arthur looks at him. Tim looks uncomfortable, and then, unbelievably, sympathetic. "Oh," he says. "That's rough, man."

"We just worked together," Arthur says, quellingly, but the fact is, he doesn't know if Eames is into guys, really. One confused adolescent crush is pretty thin evidence that Eames actually likes to suck dick. And what Eames did before Arthur met him, well. That doesn’t pertain to the question of what Eames wants, and this is exactly the kind of completely irrelevant train of thought that has been making it difficult for Arthur to fall asleep, bunked down in his classroom near the gymnasium, watching a dusty model of a solar system turn overhead. Eames, Arthur tells himself, always liked girls, and it’s really not any of Arthur’s concern either way.

*

Eames flirts with almost everyone, still, but it’s lost the hot, bleeding edge Arthur remembers; it’s easy, a little affectionate, unconscious. He doesn’t treat Arthur that way. He is--friendly. professional. careful, Arthur sees now, but not stand-offish. He watches Eames shoot some hoops with Tim and their translator, using an old kickball they found somewhere and a makeshift basket made from a rusted-out trash can. Eames has rolled up his sleeves and tucked his tie into his shirt and he and Tim are playing two on one against Jessica, who played Division I ball and is a head taller than both of them. They’re laughing, jostling against each other; Eames travels constantly, and is a disaster at ball handling, but has a surprisingly solid jump shot.

"Pretty good for a Brit," Jessica says, elbowing her way around Tim and shooting one last arcing three-pointer, and then throwing herself back down and taking the sheaf of papers Arthur offers her. "Where’d you learn?" she asks. Dom taught him, on the cracked pavement of the driveway, the old hoop that had been there when he and Mal moved in.

Eames shrugs. "Here and there," he says.

*

Nela runs them through the new build and then says, "One more thing--Beatrice is going to come out on Tuesday and top us up on Somnacin, run Tim’s tests." Arthur thinks they’d know by now if Tim were having an atypical reaction to the drugs or to PASIV-use itself, but Nela’s careful and thorough; first-timers get the standard battery of tests. Arthur ticks off procuring Somnacin on his list and forgets about it until he’s leaning against the counter shoveling down a bowl of granola, feeling gritty and numb-stomached from pulling an all-nighter and ill-equipped to deal with Tim, who appears in the doorway of he kitchen and says, incomprehensibly,

"redheads."

"Hm?" Arthur says, mouth full. The box has a picture of a very happy, very tall family camping in the woods. The cereal tastes like bark and crunchy grass and raisins.

"Nothing," Tim says, fading out of the kitchen, but Arthur gets it when he finally comes out and sees Beatrice for himself. She’s sitting on Eames’ desk, wearing a pair of corduroys and an old sweater, ragged at the cuffs, and has shining, silky tangle of auburn hair shoved into a messy ponytail. Eames is smiling down at her, full of affection; they look like a million fucking dollars together.

"Nela says they used to be a thing," Tim says, next to him.

"Oh," Arthur says. Eames dips his head down a little closer to her; she's telling him a story, moving her hands illustratively, brushing against his chest without noticing the contact.

"Let’s go say hi," Tim says eagerly. There’s no real way out of it, even though Arthur hasn’t slept in 27 hours and isn’t in the right frame of mind for introductions.

"Were you out again last night?" Eames says, standing up straighter and peering at his face. Arthur ignores him and introduces himself to Beatrice, who, up close, is pretty breathtaking, cheeks splattered with freckles, long, capable hands, soft mouth.

"Nice to meet you," she says, and then makes a little gesture towards her shoulder. "You have a little--"

"There’s a piece of ham stuck to your sleeve," Eames says.

"I was in a dumpster, it’s a long but obvious story," Arthur says, wondering when he can politely go pass out face down in a pile of blankets.

"It happens," Beatrice says. Next to Arthur, Tim shifts, waiting his turn, probably feeling excited not to be wearing lunch meat.

Beatrice sticks around for a couple days--Arthur’s still out most nights and making up sleep in the mornings. He doesn’t see her much. He doesn’t know where she sleeps. She cooks one dinner with Eames, a little more elaborate than the stews and baked casseroles they’ve been living on, both of them laughing together in the kitchen for a couple hours. There are brownies for dessert. There’s a smudge of chocolate on Beatrice’s cheek that Eames wipes off with his thumb.

*

"Arthur," Eames says, catching him alone in the hallway. "I want you to let Trix look at your back."

"I don’t think that’s really necessary," Arthur says, which is true. It’s healing well, barely tender to the touch anymore; he’s just bandaging it at this point to keep it clean. "You saw it, it’s fine."

"Yeah, but Trix is an actual doctor," Eames says.

"I don’t know her," Arthur says.

"I know her," Eames says. Arthur can’t help it, the way his eyebrow twitches up, and Eames’ face darkens. "We used to date," he says tightly. "so--what, I’m thinking with my dick now, is that what you’re saying?"

"No," Arthur says.

"I want someone to look at that thing on your back," Eames says flatly. He folds his arms and Arthur feels a hot little twist of affection at the bulk of his body, the way his sweater pulls across his chest, so far from the half-starved kid he remembers, who tried so hard never to ask for anything.

"Okay," Arthur says.

"Okay," Eames says. "Thank you."

"but I’m telling you, it’s fine," Arthur says, and he’s right, because after Trix--Beatrice--says,

"yeah, sure, let's see it," and has Arthur pull up his shirt in the girl’s locker room, she says, "Looks good to me. What’s this, a month old?"

"Three weeks," Arthur says. Her hands are nothing like Eames'--she's quick and efficient, not rough, but unhesitating when she puts a couple fingers firmly to the worst part of the wound.

"That hurt?" she says.

"Not really," Arthur says.

"Keep it clean," she says. "I don’t even think it’ll scar."

"Great," Arthur says. "Tell Eames."

"Why?" she says. "What, did he do this?"

"No," Arthur says. "He’s just--worried. You know, he’s a little--" he turns around, retucking his shirt. "I don’t know, overprotective," he says, figuring it’s not exactly news to her.

"Who, _Eames_?" She barks out a huge delighted laugh. "Yeah, right. That man once left me in an Albanian prison on our anniversary."

"He did," Arthur says, slowly.

"Oh, I got out," she says. "And, to be fair, the whole thing was my idea, but it wasn’t exactly a champagne brunch."

"yeah," Arthur mutters. She strips off her gloves and drops them in the trash and washes her hands. Arthur pulls his jacket back on.

"hey," Beatrice says, turning around. "It occurs to me that I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know how well you know him, but Eames is incredibly reliable. He’s great to work with, no complaints. And it was a nice prison, really." Arthur’s last three relationships have ended in acrimonious shouting; he still has his last text from Ben, who had been sweet and funny and cool about all the travel. Arthur misses him. The text says, " _Go 2 hell. Assholme_ "

"It’s--that's okay," Arthur says. "I’ve worked with him before, so--"

"Oh," she says. "He didn’t say."

"It was a long time ago," Arthur says.

*

Eames is waiting for him that night, sitting on the hood of the car in dark, comfortable-looking clothes, smoking.

"Let me help you do this," he says.

"I’ve got it," Arthur says.

"I didn’t ask if you had it," Eames says. "I know you do. Just let me--"

"Get in the car," Arthur says.

"Just like that?" Eames says, but he puts out the cigarette and gets in.

"It's your Friday night," Arthur says. "You want to spend it ankle deep in trash, that's your outlook." He starts the car and pulls out.

"Just ankle deep?" Eames says, low, a little hopeful. Arthur feels a smile tug at his mouth.

"What do you think?" he says, watching the way Eames slouches back against the seat, his contented grin.


End file.
